Respectable
by westpoints
Summary: [complete] 'It's a very respectable distance.' Mrs. Norbury and Mr. Duvall are dancing. Review...please.


In my defense, I really do like this movie. Tina Fey's writing won me over.

Before people jump on me for this, I am aware that there is another fic on the same subject. However, I wrote this long before I checked out this site for any Norbury-Duvall stories. I was actually surprised at the small number (1). But, since I'm only going to write one, I'm not really worried about that anymore. There aren'tmany readers of this category. Hmm. I'm done now.

Disclaimer: I don't own any part of _Mean Girls. _

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The goldfish floats in a tank on top of a side table, which her former husband had (mercifully) allowed her to keep. The table, not the goldfish. She'd bought the goldfish for herself over the summer, thinking that if she really needed companionship, she couldn't do much worse than a slimy aquatic animal with the attention span of Karen Smith. (Three seconds) As it had turned out, she really didn't need any companionship. Just a nice long day punctuated by the sound of Isaac (Newton. The inventor of calculus.) gulping air at the top of the (unchanged for a week) water. For some reason, she's not too sure that a fish is supposed to do that. 

She's also quite sure that she's not supposed to imitate Isaac, like she is right now, breathing like a wild animal in heat. (Oh no, wait; wrong character analogy.) Well, breathing like something wild and deranged and desperately in need of a non-water based relationship. Sex, her mind says. You need to get laid. She's acting like a hormonal teenager.

It must be rubbing off on her. But, she rationalizes, she is a _respectable_ distance from Mr. Duvall. Mr. Mister. Two syllables. Principal of her school. Spelled with a "pal," not a "ple." A principal is supposed to be your pal, get it, haha, you freak you. Anyway. Mister Duvall. Her boss. Who she can't take her eyes off right now, while his hands are at her hips, almost a vise-like grip, as though he's scared to move them. Her arms are around his neck, but at a good, _respectable_ distance. About two feet, say. Not up close like Cady (caddy, really, who actually spells their name that way and expects to be called something generic? Taxi driver is a much better connotation) and Aaron, who are admittedly making out in front of Cady's parents, yet not in need of a condom. Yet.

Quite obviously, her word choice was cut out for a math teacher. But they're just looking at each other. She had to break their eye contact every now and then, but they're just looking. At a _respectable _distance. Of say, two feet. She can't stop staring.

Really, she'd known the man for most of her life. Most of her...fine, almost most of her life. Maybe ten years. And they'd danced before. (Kind of. Sort of. They've chaperoned dances before. When she was married. To a man who had grown potato roots that attached his ass to the couch. It was her fault. She was a pusher, Sharon, a pusher.) There's a palpable tension between them this time, though. Palpable. She could literally open her mouth and taste the tension in the air. Of course, she's not going to do this, because then she might accidentally sort of I don't know kiss the man. Who is dancing with her at a _respectable_ distance of about two feet. And _that_, Sharon, is not allowed. Not allowed at all. Even if your faces have somehow gravitated towards each other like magnets. (Magnets don't really gravitate, they just snap, but the analogy would do for now.) So now they're at a _respectable_ two feet from each other, but his lips are maybe ten inches away. If she were to estimate, which her brain isn't worrying about right now. Her brain is worrying about the fact that maybe two feet aren't exactly right, because somehow their bodies have also gravitated-magnetlike-but-not-really towards each other, and she's surprised at how well she fits against him. Using a cliché, romance-novel-y line, that is. He's actually a little too short, and her head can't quite fit under his chin, but that's okay, because none of that really matters when she considers the situation they're in.

Right now. Because right now, they're moving achingly closer, but still wary of _respectability_, and hoping that no one has noticed that the _respectable_ two feet has shrunk into a very, _very_ respectable two inches. And she would like to tilt her head back, very Vivian Leigh-like (but not quite so needy and bitchy) and wait for him to kiss her, just. Kiss. Her. But they're at a nice, _respectable_ distance, closer than most of the couples dancing (Janis and Kevin, for example), but still _respectable_. So she stares fixedly at his face, at his eyes, and wonders if Ron Duvall (Mister. Mister Duvall) is having the same thoughts that she is. Which include the question, Did I feed Isaac before I left the house? She doubts it.

It occurs to her quite suddenly that the song lasts too long. It's been a sufficiently awkward three minutes, dancing with...Ron. (Mister Duvall) Who has a very high school-like crush on her. It must be rubbing off on him. And dear god, when was the last time she had actually danced with a man who wasn't out to ruin her (by going to law school and then divorcing her)? And why shouldn't it be Ron (Mister Duvall)? She could have a crush...at 35 years old. If she wanted to.

Damn song. She knows the end is coming, because the singer always repeats the chorus about five thousand times before the end, so it's coming. He still hasn't loosened his grip, and her hands are beginning to run over his hair. It's cropped short, almost velvety. Kinda like red carpet ropes. The last note is approaching, and they're so close anyone paying attention wouldn't even think of the word _respectable_. (No one's watching) By the way they're looking at each other (like animals at the watering hole of the African damn wrong character again), the word would have been _condom_. Well, they're adults. Maybe _their own room_ would be better. That's not a word.

All right, back to the stream-of-consciousness frame of mind. Sharon Norbury is dancing with Ron Duvall at a high school dance, and it's not an obligatory faculty dance. Her hands still, resting on the back of his head. He's moved his hands, higher, but still _respectable_ (damned with that, he's breathing the air from her mouth right now.) And as the last note dies away, he leans in closer, or does she pull him, and their lips touch for a second, just a second. And again. And again. There's hunger there, but they're _respectable _adults (who made out in front of their students), and aren't supposed go any further (Regina is sticking her tongue down Shane's throat) than just that (is that even called making out anymore?) The fragmented smile that has clung to her lips for the entire dance widens. It's over, she whispers to him.

Yeah, he says. It's over. And on the beginning bars of the next song, he pulls her close, so close, there's no space between them, and he kisses her, really kisses her, respectable to hell, and they're both breathing like Isaac as couples change partners around them, gasping at the top of adult _respectable_ behavior fish tank, and trying desperately to escape it, and he is a damn good kisser. She swallows because she has nothing to say, a smile still lingering around the corners of her mouth. He smiles back, and wraps an arm, almost possessively, around her shoulders, and heads for the door. Not to leave to do anything not respectable (dammit!) but simply to make sure that no one else does un-respectable things like they're both thinking about in the back of their brains. She doesn't shake off his arm, and he doesn't move it, but nobody notices. (They don't care.)

And later, several hours later when everyone's gone home (not her), while he may think her successful, intelligent, and caring, he learns that she is less than graceful. (That door definitely moved to slam her in the face, she defends. She did not walk into it.)

-end-

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Mm, my longest single chapter fic by far. It was such a fun analogy, fish tank, and all. 

Please review.


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